What he says and what he means
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: ... aren't necessarily the same thing. Nadia/Doyle oneshot. Doyle gets used to a life without sight.


**What he says and what he means**

**Summary: **One shot-Nadia/Doyle (of course!). A glimpse into Doyle's mind whilst he's recuperating from the explosion at the end of Season 6 and is struggling through assumed rehabilitation and getting used to a life without sight. This time I left him blind and he's staying that way.

**A/N:** I'm taking a leaf from _Chipsnopotatoes_ book in the hope that this gets rid of all my writers block, because CH22 of my other story is giving me brain ache and I really want to finish the thing at some point before Easter!

**Rating:** K

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. They belong to FOX. Gah.

**24242424242424242424242424**

He's getting used to walking into walls, into doors. Dropping things, fumbling when he's trying to do up buttons, zippers. Spilling things, tripping downstairs, upstairs… _These_ things he's getting used to, but the first time the white cane is placed into his hand he blanches and point blank refuses to use it.

To use it would be admitting defeat- accept that he's going to be blind for the rest of his life. Some things he finds more difficult to take than others. Its not denial, per se. More like avoiding the issue.

He has visitors for the first couple of months he's in there. Former colleagues drop by sporadically. He figures its sympathy, though he tries to act normal with them despite their evident awkwardness around him, but eventually their visits dwindle as they get on with their own lives. After a while, _she's_ still the only one to come by and see him on a regular basis. He guesses its maybe sympathy too, but nothing will make him rock the boat and question her intentions.

He kind of likes having her around.

Sometimes her visits are filled with nothing but silence. Other times they talk, or rather _she_ talks and he listens. She sometimes tries to help him with stuff but he blatantly refuses her assistance, which bothers her more than she cares to admit. He's been trying not to get dependent on anybody. Even his therapists are perturbed by his stubbornness, not to mention arrogance, on occasion.

She stops by one Thursday evening however, and comes to an abrupt halt in the doorway when she sees him struggling to read and understand the Braille alphabet spread out in front of him on his desk. The confusion is etched all over his face and she hesitates when she sees him swallow a frustrated sob before finally tossing the damn thing on the floor and placing his head in his hands. His shoulders are trembling.

It's too hard. He's still grieving for the loss of his sight. She knows it will complicate things even more, yet still she enters the room and entwines her hands with his, soothing him, comforting him.

She has never heard him sound more defeated when he says: "I can't _do_ it. I don't understand."

He means: _I'm afraid._

That night is the first time they kiss.

He finally pulls away and says: "We can't do this, either."

He really means: I _can't do this when I can't even see you_.

**2424242424242424242424242424**

Three days after their kiss, she stops by with a gift for him.

His voice is bewildered when he says: "What's this?"

He means: _Why have you brought me a present?_

She says: "open it."

His hands open the paper bag. He can feel it's a book. Then he feels the raised dots beneath his fingertips. Some formations are familiar, others not as much so. He tilts his head inquisitively in the direction of her voice.

She says: "Read it."

Tentative fingers slide over the front cover; his brow is furrowed in concentration. For the first time ever she sees him smile, as he is finally able to understand _some_ of the words and letters he's been struggling with for weeks. A grin is on his face when he says: "The Cat in the Hat?"

He means: _Thank you_.

She says: "You're welcome."

**2424242424242424242424242424**

When they're together, he sometimes has doubts, anxieties and says: "I don't want this."

When he really means: _The feelings I have for you scare me. Especially now._

He says as he smoothes callused palms down the side of her face; "We can never be anything more than this. Not when I can't even see you." 

He means: _I'm afraid to take a chance on letting someone in._

Even when she's in his arms and he's kissing her and feeling things he never felt for anyone before, the bigger part of him is frightened, too scared to take that chance, especially with these unfamiliar circumstances. Why the hell would she want to be with someone like him?

He's been hurt in the past and isn't prepared to let down his guard again, to let someone else bruise his cold, knotted heart. It's twisted like shrapnel, coiling a little tighter and beating that little bit faster every time her lips mesh with his.

It's even worse now that he can't see her face and identify her emotions as well as he could before. He's working on limited memories of her alone, and everything is jumbled up in his mind. His sharp brain moves in leaps and bounds, quick assumptions that occasionally leave her scratching her head in confusion. She wonders half the time where he gets his reasoning. Sometimes he's thinking so hard, trying to put things together in his mind that his head aches and his therapists warn him to cool down. To _relax_ because these things take time.

Time? He has that now in abundance. The only time he relaxes and starts to let go is when _she'_s around and he's never going to regain any semblance of sight anyway, the explosion saw to that, so what's the point in letting his _mind_ go to waste?

As she kisses him, her hands tangling in his blond hair and hoping against hope that she'll break through to him _this _time, she knows it's futile.

His kisses are warm but his body remains taut, rigid. He's giving her his body, but never his soul. His heart. What does she expect? It's all so new with them. They've built… not even a 'relationship' but _something_, whilst he's been shut away in this imposing centre, trying to get used to a life forever devoid of sight. Six long months now and still he won't let her in.

Her heart aches for him, for what he's lost and even as he pushes her away, she senses the anguish and sorrow in his unseeing blue eyes with their scratched corneas and irises that now hauntingly bleed into his pupils.

His occasional rejection hurts her, but she accepts it. If it means that she can be close to him, she'll take whatever she can get. She nearly lost him that day, lost others that she cared about, and it made her realise how quickly it can all be over. It _has_ been somewhat rushed between them but she does not regret a single second of it. How could she?

There were shaky foundations built between them from the first second they met, tentative grounding built on arguments, threats and insults, and these disagreements still persist from time to time. She lets him shout at her, get angry, because he has no one else to take it out on. Other times he retreats into his shell and she can't get through to him at all. A visit goes by with no kisses, no caresses. No talking. Either way, no matter how callously he sometimes treats her, she has no intention of going anywhere.

At least at first.

Weeks later, the realisation dawns on her that she's infact being foolish. That _she's_ the one doing all the running. So unlike her. She's usually strong, determined. Something about this man makes her weak and forget herself. So she backs away in the hope that it will bring him to his senses. Stops the thrice-weekly visits to the centre where he's been 'recuperating.'

He misses her when he can't hear her calm voice. He can no longer smell the scent of Ralph Lauren lingering in his private room, a constant reminder of her even when she's not around; he knows her brand of perfume by now, could spot it a mile off. He also recognises the scent of her shampoo, the vanilla lotion she rubs into her skin, the mintiness of her Crest toothpaste. Every smell is familiar to him, but it's begun to fade and it hurts.

Eventually, after seven days of silence, the longest week of his life where even his therapists have been scared of his mood swings, he caves in and just calls her. His voice is gruffer than usual when he says: "I missed you this week."

He actually means: _I missed you this week._

Her voice is distant when she says: "I've been busy. Work, you know?"

He can hear the faraway inflection in her voice and it stings him. He says: "Right." His voice is now cold.

He really means: _So you forgot about me? It was only a matter of time._

Her voice is hesitant when she says: "I could visit you on Saturday. I could drive you to the beach and we could take a walk…"

He says: "Don't put yourself out on my account."

He means: _I'd like that._

**242424242424242424242424**

She stops by Saturday morning. He's already waiting on the bench in the parking lot, stands up when he recognises her footsteps crunching across the gravel toward him. She hasn't seen him for only ten days and it feels like forever. He's looking tired, pale, grumpy. Dark smudges under his eyes highlight his cheekbones, accentuating his now pale skin. Is it her imagination or do those eyes of his darken slightly when she brushes her lips chastely to his cheek?

He says: "Ten days and already you're kissing me like I'm a distant relative?"

He still means: _I missed you this week._

She merely smiles, though she knows he can't see it and asks him if he's ready to go.

**24242424242424242424242424**

The drive to the beach is silent. He's brooding. He tilts his face to the open car window appreciatively and feels the sun warming his face as she switches routes to take them down the coastal highway. He's starting to feel alive again for the first time in weeks.

She makes small talk, but he's in no mood to hear it. To hear her excuses of _why_ she hasn't came by to visit him. Why she left him on his own in that godforsaken clinic without any visitors. Eventually she falls silent. This isn't going as well as she'd hoped. He's in one of his angry and unforgiving moods, though to her credit, she can understand why.

The beach is pretty quiet. It's early and there's only a few dog-walkers and joggers out. They pull off their sneakers, dump them in the trunk of the sedan as she takes his hand and leads him down onto the dunes. She sees the frustration in his face that he can't even manage this one small task for himself without falling over, but the sand is uneven, littered with pebbles, and she'd rather him sacrifice his stubborn sense of pride _for once_ than break his goddamn neck.

He realises he feels almost normal, as the sea breeze caresses his sandy hair and the tang of saltwater assails his nostrils. He can hear the sound of the breakwater crashing on shore, the gulls screaming overhead, as his other _intact_ senses gradually become more alert again. Compared to the harsh stillness of the centre, the beach is noisy, but he welcomes it. She sees his tense shoulders unwinding and a half smile cross his face and she is glad.

They walk along the shore for what feels like miles, both silent. It is him that breaks it, for once.

He says: "Thank you."

He means: _"I'm sorry."_

Her small hand finds his as their toes curl in the damp sand and suddenly nothing else needs to be said, but he says it anyway. He says: "I don't know if we can work."

He really means: _But I'm willing to take a chance._

As her lips finally find his and he willingly pulls her to him, they both realise that's all that actually matters.

**2424242424242424242424 :0)**


End file.
